Messala in combat before King Herod. King Herod
is out of sight.
Music by Thatcher’s orchestra. Overture is a jew’s-harp
solo, “Poet and Phesant,” by Jean Baptiste Deschamps.
Songs will likely be sung between acts by the
Cross J Quartette.
Me and Dirty Shirt deciphers all this, and wonders exceedingly.
“Listens like a regular show, Ike,” says Dirty.
“Better be,” states Yuma. “We paid to see something.”
“That’s whatever, Yuma,” agrees Pug.
“She better be.”
“You snake-hunters wouldn’t know the difference anyway,” says Dirty.
“Any man what ever roamed them Snake Hills wouldn’t _sabe_ anything
entertaining less than murder or a lynching. Why don’t some folks wash
up a little, I wonder. You smell anything from back there, Ike?”
“Them is fighting remarks in our country, old-timer,” warns Yuma.
“Do I have to go back there with you?” asks Dirty, sarcastic-like, but I
takes him by the arm, and tries to pacify him.
“Don’t quarrel with them ant-eaters, Dirty,” says I. “They’re unclean.”
“You mean them words?” inquires Yuma.
“Who’s talking to you?” I asks. “It shows darn poor taste to listen to a
private conversation. Lean back and shut up!”
Just then old man Thatcher stands up, bites off a fresh chew, waves his
bow, and the solo starts. Ever hear classical music on a jew’s-harp?
Frenchy leans back in his chair, and groans and twangs like a busted
guitar. Yuma and Pug crouches down over the backs of our chairs, and
stares at Frenchy.
“My ——!” explodes Yuma. “What in —— is the matter with him?”
“Set down!” yelps Dirty. “What do you think he’s playing—‘Stars and
Stripes’?”
“Playing?” asks Yuma, in a hoarse whisper. “Playing ——! He’s dying!”
_O-o-o-o-om-m-m-m—twang, twang, twung—e-eeng, zung, twung, twang,
tum-m-m-m,_ goes Frenchy. _Tum-m-m-m, twang, twing, twum-m-m-m._
_Bang!_
I got the hair burnt off the back of my neck, when Yuma’s gun busts near
my off ear, and then I slides deep into my chair. I looks at the
orchestra, and observes old man Thatcher, with his bow held high,
looking at Frenchy, who is staring at his cupped hands. Thatcher’s boy
is on the floor, with his squeeze organ shielding his face, while
Calamity Clakins is backed up against the stage, with his harp between
his teeth and a gun in each hand. He breathes deep-like, and gets a few
discords out of that mouth-harp.
“By gar, she’s gone!” yelps Frenchy. “Jus’ whan I get going fine she
went away.”
“Good shooting, Yuma,” applauds Pug. “A six-gun beats forceps every
time. I don’t know how you picked the right tooth, though.”
“Give me that gun, Yuma,” demands Bill McFee, the sheriff, coming down
the aisle, and Yuma hands it to him.
After Bill went back I saw Pug give Yuma one of his.
“Next man what shoots any of the orchestra is going to get put out,”
announces Bill from the back of the hall. “They ain’t charging us a
thing for their services, so it ain’t no killing matter. I’ll sure boot
any man what throws lead at them again.”
Yuma stands up and faces Bill.
“Was that part of the orchestra, Bill?” he asks.
“It was!” snaps Bill. “You ruined the jew’s-harp, Yuma Yates!”
“——!” says Yuma, apologetic-like. “My mistake, Bill; I thought he was
French.”
Then the curtain parts and out comes Old Testament. He gives us the
peace sign and clears his throat.
“Brothern and sisters,” says he. “Man came from dust and to dust he
returneth back. We are gathered together here this evening on a
solemn—we are here togethered this evening to-to-to——”
“Cow on the track,” whispered Yuma.
“To withstand the—to commemorate the—the—to take part in the——”
“Write it out and mail it to us,” suggests Dirty Shirt.
Old Testament loosens his collar, and walks to the other end of the
stage.
“We are gathered together here this evening to-to-to-to——”
“Clear board!” yelps “Skinny” Skelton, a brakeman from Silver Bend, but
Old Testament merely looks sad-like at Skinny, and continues:
“In behalf of the Baptist Church I am glad to see so many smiling faces
here together. I am——”
Just then the curtain went up, and Testament has to hop out of sight.
She sure is something for to look at. They’ve got things built up so it
looks like the roof of a shack, and up there, sitting on beer kegs, is
Scenery Sims and Annie Mudgett, and beside them, looking over the edge,
is Magpie Simpkins.
Man, he’s a sight. He’s got on red flannel underclothes, with a short
skirt covered with red polka dots. His skinny legs are encased in a pair
of well-greased boots, and on his head is a little, flat derby hat,
which sets on the tops of his ears. Around his waist is strapped old J.
B. Whittaker’s Civil War saber.
Scenery is wearing an old Grand Army suit, with a feather in his hat,
and in one hand he holds an old flint-lock pistol. Annie Mudgett, who
looks like Miss Democracy, has got on a long cheese-cloth robe, and a
veil which fits up under her long nose.
“They come!” squeaks Scenery, poking behind him with his pistol, and
keeping his eyes on the crowd in front. “Here comes the governor!”
Magpie sticks out his chest, and struts to the edge, where he picks up a
brick. We can hear a lot of noise, like folks cheering, and then Magpie
heaves the brick. The roar of voices seems to get louder, and then a
burst of profanity assails our ears.
“You danged red-legged pelican!” whoops a voice, and here comes Ricky
Henderson, leading a burro.
The gore is running down one side of his face, and he leads that burro
right on to the roof.
“You hunk of limburger!” yelps Ricky. “Where did you aim to throw that
brick?”
“Shot at the governor and hit the muleskinner!” whoops Yuma.
“Take that burro off this roof!” squeaks Scenery, poking at Ricky with
that antiquated gun. “Take it back! What do you think you’re leading—a
canary bird?”
“Gadzooks!” roars Magpie. “Get thee hence, varlet! Tell the soldiers to
come and take me to the oar.”
“Fly that jassack off this roof or I’ll throw you off,” screeches
Scenery, and Ricky leads the animal away.
“Some show, eh?” chuckles Pug. “That’s good acting.”
“Oh, oh, oho, oho, oh, oh!” howls Miss Mudgett, with her nose in the
air, like a coyote objecting to the moon. “Oh, they’ll take you away,
_Bennie_, and it was all an accident.”
“Fear ye not,” consoles Magpie, twisting his mustache. “My soul is
greater than their punishment.”
Just then in comes Ren Merton and Doughgod Smith. Ren is wearing a
bearskin overcoat, and a derby with the brim cut off, and Doughgod is
wearing an old lodge uniform. They’ve both got spears fifteen feet long.
They surrounds Magpie, and marches him right off over the edge of the
roof.
“Farewell,” yelps Magpie. “I go to row a boat for a while.”
“_Adios_,” howls Yuma, standing up in his chair. “I hope somebody rocks
the boat.”
Then the curtain goes down and the orchestra hands us “Sweet Marie.”
* * * * *
“That was some start, if you asks me,” opines Dirty Shirt, rolling a
smoke.
“Worst music I ever heard,” growls Yuma, and Dirty turns around.
“You ain’t tied there, are you?” he asks. “Go home if you don’t like
it.”
Before Yuma can reply Magpie comes out in front of the curtain. He
stops, and holds up his hand for silence.
“Get shipwrecked already?” yelps Buck Masterson.
“Hey, Bill! Bill McFee!” yells Magpie, and Bill answers from the back of
the room—
“What do you want, Magpie?”
“Say, Bill, where is _Simonides?_”
“My ——!” wails Bill. “I forgot to let him out of jail!”
He lopes out of the hall. Magpie holds up his hand again, and when
everybody stops making a noise, he announces that the Cross J quartet
will render a selection.
“Is it absolutely necessary, Magpie?” inquires Zeb Abernathy.
“Almost unavoidable, Zeb,” assures Magpie, “we’ve got to kill time.”
“I hope that will be all,” says Zeb, and then out comes Chuck,
Telescope, Hen and Muley.
The first three are dressed in Sunday clothes. But Muley is putting on a
little dog, if you ask me.
He’s got a little skirt like Magpie has, and pink underclothes that sort
of look a little shameless. Over one shoulder, and draped down the front
of him is a bob-cat skin. His feet are encased in a pair of shiny
leather shoes, and he’s got a strip of red ribbon bound around his manly
head, with the streamers hanging out behind.
There is considerable applause and comment when they appear, and Yuma
begins to whistle that selection from the “Streets of Cairo,” through
his teeth. Dirty stands up and faces Yuma.
“Mister Yates,” says he. “You stuff that whistle in your throat! If you
wasn’t evil-minded you wouldn’t think of anything wrong. Stop it!”
“Ain’t it going to dance?” asks Yuma, sad-like.
“Sing,” states Dirty, and just then they begins. Muley and Chuck begins
on “The Holy City,” Telescope and Hen hits the high notes of “Sweet
Adeline,” and the orchestra drills into “Sweet Marie.”
“I hate a liar,” yelps Yuma, in Dirty’s ear. “I hate a liar!”
“My mistake, Yuma,” yelps Dirty. “I’ve been misled.”
Just then here comes Bill McFee and John McBeth, and the music stops.
The quartet sees a chance to duck, and they sure did.
“Who’s the horse-thief that Bill’s got?” asks Pug, as they slides past
one end of the curtain.
“He’s the _hombre_ what started this show,” says I. “He’s a eminent
tragedian.”
“He’s got something to answer for,” says Pug. “I hereby apologize to all
decent horse-thieves.”
We don’t have to wait long for the next act, which discloses Muley and
Ricky Henderson sitting there in chairs. Ricky has got a bandage on his
manly brow. There’s a rocking-chair, with a bearskin on it, and a table
with some books and things to make it look homelike.
“Dost know aught of this _Ben-Hur_?” asks Muley.
“Yeah,” says Ricky, rolling a cigaret. “He’s a mean jasper, _Messaly._ I
wouldst—wouldst—wouldst——”
“Fain,” prompts Muley.
“Wouldst fain see thou stick him in the vittles, Messaly.”
“Vitals,” corrects Muley. “Vittles are grub.”
“Vitals,” says Ricky. “Vittles are grub.”
Just then cometh John McBeth. He’s got a long, red robe around him, and
draped over his left arm. He comes in, dragging his feet, and scowling.
“What ho, _Messala_!” he roars. “How goeth things in Rome?”
“Fine and dandy,” says Muley. “How is things with you? What do you know
about this _Ben-Hur,_ the noble Jew?”
“_Ben-Hur-r-r-r?_ The Jew who was lately released from the galley, after
accidentally dropping a tile on the governor?”
“That’s him, old-timer,” says Ricky, “only you used the wrong word and
the wrong person. Accident ——!”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Yuma. “This is better than a honkatonk.”
Just then Magpie strolls in. Him and Muley glares at each other, and
Magpie turns to McBeth:
“Howdy, _Simonides._ How’s all your folks?”
“Art thou _Ben-Hur-r-r-r,_ the Jew?” thunders _Simonides._
“Art,” agrees Magpie, patting himself on the chest. “Sure art.”
Muley walks over across the stage, and looks at a paper on the wall.
“Gadzooks!” he yelps. “Impossible! Look ye!”
“Im-m-m-mpossible?” roars _Simonides._ “What is im-m-m-m-possible?”
“It says that _Ben-Hur_ will drive in the chariot-race. That Jew? Why he
couldn’t herd a cow down a——”
“Whoa!” whoops Magpie. “Them ain’t your lines, Muley. You lay off that
kind of talk or I’ll bust your nervous system into smithereens. _Sabe?_
I can drive a lot better than you can, you fat——”
“Peace!” howls _Simonides_. “Peace!”
“Peace ——!” whoops Muley, hauling out his cleaver. “Have at you,
_Ben-Hur_!”
“Same to you and many of them!” yells Magpie, hauling out his saber, and
right then they goes seeking for gore.
They circles like a pair of wolves, and then rushes.
Something goes wrong. They’re on opposite sides of the stage when they
makes the grand rush, and they can’t get no closer. Both of them are
running as fast as they can, and it sort of makes me sea-sick. The
carpet gets kicked to one side, and _Simonides_ dives right out through
the wall. Ricky starts to run between them but his feet try to hit him
in the ear, and he pinwheels out of sight.
Out from the other side comes old Judge Steele, dignified as an owl in
his flowing white robes. He don’t get far when the phenomenon gets him
too, and he ends up over a chair, with his bare feet waving in the air.
“Ye-e-e-eow!” whoops Yuma, standing up on his seat.
_Bang! Bang!_
He must have cut the rope what rolls the curtain, ’cause it drops down,
and cuts off one remarkable sight. Mostly everybody is on their feet,
yelling and throwing their hats around, but as soon as the curtain is
down they quiet a bit. We hears some commotion behind the curtain, and
Bill McFee stumbles out.
“Say, who fired them shots?” he whoops. “Who done it?”
“Yuma Yates,” yells somebody, and Bill hops off the stage, and comes up
to us.
“Give me that gun!” snaps Bill. “Look what you done—dang you!”
Bill turns around, and from his carcass comes the odors of alcohol.
“Look!” he roars. “Your darn lead busted that bottle on my hip, carroms
off and stings the burro, and Old Testament got kicked plumb back into
Proverbs. I’m going to put you Snake River toughs out of here. _Sabe?_
Rise and travel!”
“Ho-o-o-o-ld fast! Whoa! Stay with ’em, Ricky! Whoa! Whoa!” yelps
several voices behind the curtain. “Ye-e-e-ow! Let ’em go!”
_Rip! Crash!_
The curtain and half of the front of the stage comes out, and along with
it comes John McBeth, old Judge Steele, Old Testament, and right with
them is that burro. They lights in the aisle, and fights for a good
running position. I think the burro got the rail.
* * * * *
I glances back at the stage, and sees the feature act of the show. There
is Magpie and Muley, each standing up on the front trucks of lumber
wagons, to which shafts have been built, like breaking carts, and
hitched to each one is a wild-eyed bronc, fighting for a chance to go
some place and never come back again.
“Let her go!” yelps somebody, and they slacks up on the lines enough to
let them buzzard-heads hit the floor.
Man, them broncs lit running, but they’re in the same fix that Muley and
Magpie were. They sure laid down to work, but don’t get no place. Magpie
and Muley are throwing the leather into them, and yelling like
Comanches, and them broncs rattle their hoofs at forty miles an hour.
Everybody in the place is yelling and breaking up chairs. The candles
along the front of the stage sets the ruined curtains on fire, and I
seen “Swan River” Swanson hop from his seat and swing on to the big lamp
in the middle of the room. Swan River was either trying to play safe or
get a better look, which was all right and proper, but the lamp tore
loose, and he comes right down on top of Bill McFee and Yuma Yates.
“Forty dollars on the roan!” whoops Pug, hopping up and down on my
shoulders, “Forty to thirty that he——”
_Crash! Bang! R-r-r-r-r-ip!_
Somebody monkeyed with the wheels of progress. Them broncs seemed to
take a toe-hold, and left their spots like a streak. I seen Muley turn
over once on his way up beyond my vision. Magpie was leaning forward on
his truck, and when his animal tore loose I seen him sail into the air
like a big, red-legged crane, and turn end over end far out into the
audience.
One bronc ripped off a corner of the stage, and I seen it hang up there
for a moment, wheels spinning and bronc kicking. The other one shot
right out over the orchestra, and stood on its head, with that truck
standing on the ends of the shafts, and slowly falling toward me. I
tried to saunter out of the way, but my foot got caught in a chair, and
I bowed my head to the inevitable.
Darkness covered the land, and I slept. I dreamed that a centipede was
using my cheek for a sidewalk, and I awoke to find Dirty Shirt’s spur
hooked under my off ear. I shoved his heel away, and looks around.
Things seem sort of cramped to me, so I slips my head out from between
the spokes of that chariot, and sizes things up better.
There’s a couple of candles still burning on the stage, which gives us a
little light. I sets down in a busted chair, and rubs some of the kinks
out of my system.
Bill McFee and Yuma Yates are still locked in each other’s embrace out
where the aisle used to be, and as I look at them Yuma rolls loose and
rubs his head. He looks at me, and then around the place.
“Who won?” he asks, in a hoarse whisper. “Who won?”
“Dead heat,” I whispers, and he nods—
“It’s a miracle if they’re not.”
Chairs are squeehawed and busted all over the place, showing that folks
didn’t wait to march out. I hears a clump, and Muley falls out of a
bunch of busted scenery near the roof. He’s got a chair hung on one leg,
and the breeching of a harness circles his neck. There’s a look of
perfect contentment on his fat face, as he bows to us, and recites:
“The Summer sun was shining
On a glacier gold and white,
’Round my old Kentucky home
When I went away that night.
I could hear the gophers singing
In their nests among the trees
And the moonshine came a-stealing—
Alcoholic on the breeze.”
“That’s good,” says Yuma, awed-like, trying to clap his hands. “This is
the first circus that I ever was at and stayed for the concert.”
Muley walks right off the edge of the stage, and goes down in a heap. He
don’t no more than hit the floor until another apparition stands up. I’d
opine that Froggy Deschamps has been kicked between the eyes, ’cause the
upper half of his face sure is shaded. He nods to us, cups his hands
around his mouth, and:
_Twang-g-g-g, twum-m-m-m, tung-g-g-g-g, hong-g-g-g, hum-m-m-m, tum-m-m._
“My ——!” grunts Yuma, staggering up the aisle. “Going home. Never knew
this was a continuous performance.”
He faded out of the door. Dirty Shirt sets up, and looks around. He
cocks his ear to the music, and shakes his head, solemn-like.
“Ike,” says he, “I dreamed that I was dead, and that the angels were
playing harps. Do angels play jew’s-harps?”
“We won’t hear them, Dirty,” says I. “Music won’t bore us where we’ll
end up. Come on.”
“Listen!” exclaims Dirty, and we pauses.
“One for you and one for me, one for you and one for me,” drones a
voice.
We weaves up to the back of the room. There in the doorway sets Old
Testament, with a sack of dollars in his lap, and across from him,
propped against the wall, is John McBeth. John’s head is hanging on his
chest, and his eyes are closed in sleep. The King of Tragedy is far from
mundane things.
We stops to watch. Old Testament takes a dollar out of the sack, and
lays it on John’s robe, and then takes one for himself.
“One for you and one for me,” he sings, and then fumbles into the sack
again.
He don’t even see us.
“One for you and one for me.”
“Fifty-fifty—a—church,” snores McBeth. “Shades—Lew Wallace.”
“How did the church come out, Testament?” inquires Dirty.
Old Testament stops dealing for a moment, and squints up at us. He seems
to sort of understand, but shakes his head:
“Two fiery steeds, one chariot and a multitude of people, but no church
as yet,” he replies, and starts in, “One for you and one for me.”
Me and Dirty upsets the King of Tragedy as we goes out of the door, but
Old Testament props him up again, and goes on dealing.
We stumbles down the busted stairs, and runs into a ghost.
“Salutations, Spook,” says Dirty, and the apparition stops.
“I am _Sheik Ilderim_,” it states. “I am a Arab, and I still have a part
to play. They couldn’t hold them broncs any longer.”
“Go ahead and play it,” says I. “You ain’t got nothing on Froggy
Deschamps, and Annie Mudgett. Why don’t you three get together and play
out the hand?”
We left him pondering the question, and pilgrims up the street. Seems
like everybody is crowding the saloons or loading up to go home.
“Let us go over and see who got killed,” suggests Dirty, but I shakes my
head.
“Not me, Dirty. I’ve seen so much that my eyes ache. I’m going to get my
burro, and go home. So-long, old-timer.”
* * * * *
I hobbled down to Dirty’s cabin and loaded my burro. I sort of hankers
to get away from the bright lights, so I points the animal up the road.
It is moonlight, and sudden-like I sees a figure ahead of me in the
road. It sure looks fearsome in the dim light, so I halts my burro, and
prepares for the worst.
“Advance, Ike Harper,” says a hoarse voice, and I recognizes Magpie.
Beyond him is a figure setting in the dust.
“Greetings, noble Jew,” says I. “I thought you were still in town,
accepting the plaudits of the populace.”
“I chased him,” says Magpie, pointing at the figure in the road, which
is slowly getting to its feet.
It is Pete McCall, the chunky little cross-eyed puncher from the Circle
Star. He weaves around the road, talking to himself.
“Why chase poor little Pete?” I asks.
“He double-crossed me!” snaps Magpie. “He done me dirt.”
“Never did,” wails Pete. “Never did, Magpie. You told me to sneak under
the stage and block Muley’s whirligig, so his bronc goes to the bad,
didn’t you? Well, I never had a chance—dang you! When I crawled under
there I found Art Miller and Pete Gonyer. They was drinking out of a
bottle, and arguing which one of them things you’re going to race on.
They don’t know, so they decides to shove a two-by-four into each, so as
not to make any mistake. They said the whole thing was a fifty-fifty
proposition, anyway.”
Pete waddles off into the gloom, and we don’t offer to molest him.
“Where you going, Ike?” asks Magpie, after a period of silence.
“Home. Old Testament said that we’ll get our reward in Paradise, but I
ain’t going to wait. Piperock looks good to me, Magpie.”
“I’ll go with you, Ike. There may be a reward in Paradise for me, but it
will likely read: ‘Dead or Alive.’”
“In them clothes, Magpie?”
He looks down at his apparel, and scratches his head. He clanks his
sword on a rock, and peers back at the lights of Paradise.
“Yeap. I left my pants and chaps at Bill McFee’s when I borrowed these
red tights, I paid Mrs. Henderson to make this skirt, I traded hats with
a harness drummer, and Whittaker’s got my six-gun in place of this old
cheese-knife. I’m splitting fifty-fifty with the world. Let’s go home.”
We plods along for a couple of miles, when Magpie stops, and turns to
me.
“Ike,” says he, “maybe things didn’t work as per program, but I want you
to understand that I didn’t do all this for applause, reputation or
filthy gain.”
“No, Magpie,” says I, “I never thought you did, ’cause you’d be hissed
out of Yaller Rock County, broke like a dog and branded as a homicide.
There might have been worse actors——”
“‘Ben-Hur’ actors?” he asks.
But I don’t reply, ’cause I’ve got to live with him.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
February 18, 1919. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]